Four Years Later
by secretlife1201
Summary: It's been four years, & Sara still cries for the man she lost too soon. His children will never know him, & that breaks her heart. But what if he isn't dead? What if he has really been in a coma all these years & wakes up with broad memory loss? Can love sew the pieces of ones mind back together? Or will Michael Scofield never remember the friends & family he left behind? Rated M.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N**_

_**So a few weeks ago I was searching through Netflix instant and came across Prison Break. I started watching, and soon fell completely in love with it. It only took like two weeks for me to watch the entire series, and when I got to the end I just about balled my eyes out. I could not believe they killed off everyone's favorite character, and I basically moped around the house for days afterward (I mean, i get why they did it but still! Couldn't Michael and Sara have a happy ending just once?!). Then, I began searching for a fanfic where he didn't die and really couldn't find anything. So, I've decided to write my own! I know Prison Break is an older show so I probably won't be getting a lot of viewers, so if you do happen to come across this story, please review!**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Prison Break.**_

* * *

**Chapter 1: November 4th**

**Sara**

Her chocolate brown eyes sweep over the fading collapsible table, a finger coming to her chin as she contemplates her decision. There are rows upon rows of different assortments layed out in front of her, all with very distinct shapes and meanings, each ranging from different ends of the color spectrum. There is no denying that they are beautiful, but this is very important to her. The flowers she picks out have to be perfect.

Hmm…there are roses. White, red, pink, even a few yellow—all basically meaning the same thing; I love you. No, that isn't right. He knows she loves him. She keeps searching, a hand nonchalantly combing through her long, straight hair. Orchids come next, and again, they don't appear accurate. The pit of her stomach tightens as she begins losing faith that she'll ever find what she's looking for.

The man behind the counter wearing a Hawaiian shirt, the unofficial dress code down here, is very nice about the additional amount of time this is taking her, but Sara knows the delay must irritate him. For god sakes, it's maddening _her_. She can't show up empty handed, yet none of the ones on the table seem correct. Uncontrollably, her toe begins tapping, as it always does when she's annoyed, and she's about to give up on the pursuit all together when her eyes zero in on an arrangement stationed at the table behind the seller.

"Those, right there," She points to the flowers. "Are they for sale?" Her voice can't help but get high in exhilaration.

The man turns around to see what she is asking about, and he picks up the white bundle with gentle, withered hands. "¿Espléndida belleza?"

A smile breaks out across her face. "Yes, _splendid beauty. _I had these at my wedding." She thinks back to her wedding all those years ago, seeing the long, flowy dress she's worn on the beach…the quite purr of the crashing waves…the groom. Splendid beauty indeed described that day precisely, except for the part where she was arrested at the reception.

"Beautiful," The man comments in broken English. "Si, I've been waiting for someone special to have them. Someone deserving. They're the last of the shipment."

The exquisite calla lilies almost call to her, whispering soothing words in hushed murmurs, and she knows she has to have them. Not only are they stunning, they feel right. "¿Estoy merezco?"

The corners of his lips turn up. "Si. I think you deserve." He hands her the flowers without another word, a quick shake of the head when she asks for a price. Surprised, she brings the calla lilies closer to her face, although seeing nothing wrong. All have centers of gold, clean white sheets wrapped meticulously around every one. "They're perfect. Are you sure?"

"Por supuesto," He nods his head, ushering her to keep them by extending his fingers toward her. "Of course."

She beams. "Thank you so much," This right here is why she loves living in Panama so much. People just seem to be genuinely nicer down here in the south, and she hasn't seen the wrong end of a gun in years. This place has become a safe haven for her. "Have a nice day."

The market man smiles at her encouragingly, nodding his head. "You too,"

Still astonished by this random act of kindness, Sara puts her wallet back into the white knit bag slung carelessly across her left shoulder. She looks out at the thriving mass of anonymous figures, pulsating with the energy that is carried with a throng of people. Everybody's separate conversations combining into one asymmetrical string of noises, she strides away from the flower display, her attention now only on one thing. Actually, _two_ things. "Come on, guys, we gotta go."

A few feet from the original stand, she finds her son sitting at another booth, the dark sleeve of his shirt rolled up. A grin appears in her features as she kneels down in front of him, examining the image stuck to his skin. "What've you got there?"

"A tattoo!" A shrill voice rings out from behind her. She spins around to find a little girl who stands about three feet tall, her long auburn curls tied neatly into two pigtails. "Michael got a bull and I got a butterfly! See, Mama!"

Gazing into her daughter's sapphire eyes, a pang of familiarity weaves its way into her heart. Both her children had inherited their father's eyes. "Let me see, sweetie." The little girl shoots her arm out, showing her mother the purple insect. Sara brings the tiny hand to her lips, planting a kiss on the soft exterior. "You're so brave, huh?"

Michael jumps off of the stool, coming to stand next to his mother and sister. "Katie cried, but I didn't." He crosses his arm, an angry crease forming between his eyebrows.

Sara lets out a laugh, kissing his arm as well. Kids could be so innocently comical sometimes. "Okay, tough guy." She pays the dark skinned man who gave the fake tattoos, standing back up. The twins both promptly latch their arms around her legs, tugging on her long yellow and white floral dress. Her head drops to look down at their enthusiastic faces. "Do you want to hold the flowers, Katie Kat?"

Katie eagerly takes the bouquet, her mother reaching down to grab her free hand. Sara clutches Michael's as well, and together, the three set out down the uneven pavement, leaving the crowded marketplace. "Come on," She says in the best positive tone she can assemble. "Let's go see your daddy."

oOo

Autumn used to be Sara's favorite time of year—the subtle drop in temperature, leaves changing color and elegantly falling to the ground, the distinct crispness of the air…it had always reminded her of the beginning of the end in a sense. Seasons don't change as drastically here as they do in the United States, though, and she has slowly grown to hate the fall. For every November 4th, she has to open herself up to what happened. She has to drop the thick wall of sanity she's built so that life itself is endurable, and pretend that she's come to terms with Michael's death.

It's been four years, and Sara still wonders whether or not she'll ever be able to accept it.

The ache in her heart hurts like nothing she's ever felt before, crippling her from the inside out. She'd take a million more beatings, be tortured by any means possible, give birth to screaming children over and over again if it meant seeing him once more. It was as if a knife had been stabbed into her very core, being twisted and turned by the cruel hands of fate. Her fate had been decided for her the moment the rushed words had left his lips. And behind the excruciating pain she feels, Sara is fuming with survivor's guilt. Not just guilt, she blames herself.

Her thoughts uncontrollably drift to the last moments they'd ever shared, a tear naturally sliding down her cheek in the process.

_Law enforcement pounding deafeningly on the pried door, Michael cradled the sides of her head with his soft, loving hands. His eyes were so deep, she felt as if she were looking into two blue, never ending pits of despair. "You don't understand…this is the only way."_

_Her own eyes filled with confusion, staring fixedly up at him. Yes, he was right. She _didn't_ understand. It's impossible to picture a life without him, what with everything they'd been through already. Don't they deserve a happy ending? "I'm not leaving unless you're coming with me."_

_His hands fell to her still-flat belly, caressing her womb. The tone Michael next uses is miserable and pleading for her to apprehend, and completely broke her heart. "I am coming with you."_

_She stared up at him, stunned by what he was suggesting, choking out desperately, "I love you."_

_He gave her a sad, tragic smile, clasping the sides of her face again and pronouncing, "I love you so much," before leaning down to plant a devoted kiss on her trembling lips. A sense of conclusiveness lingered between them as he spoke his final words to her. "Go." She gaped at him, absolutely sickened. "Go, Sara."_

A seagull's piercing cry brings her back to the present, emptiness engulfing her. Her heart splits in half all over again, and the simple waterworks quickly turn to vision blurring volcanoes of tears. Moans inevitably escape her throat, Sara's entire body shuddering in agony. She inaudibly sends a prayer to Lincoln for taking the kids after the memorial. If there is one thing that hurts her more than Michael's demise itself, it's the after effects.

He's buried in a small cemetery located right off the beach. It has a beautiful view of the horizon, and is only about half a mile away from where Sara lives. Every year, Sucre and Mahone fly down for a few days to join her, the twins, and Lincoln at the memorial of his death. Flowers and a paper crane are permanent favors, and afterwards the men take the kids back to Lincoln's house.

She's not quite certain that Michael and Katie understand what's going on. Three and a half years of age, and their very bright for their age. Of course they'd ask why they didn't have a father, and she'd have to explain that he loved them so much he'd given his life so they could have one. Still, to them, he's just a slab of concrete they have to visit once a year—and in a way that's the very worst part. Michael was so much more than that, but how do you describe him to preschoolers? They can't possibly grieve the way she does; hence it's just easier to have them go with their uncle so they won't have to see their mother upset.

Plus, Sara in no way minds being alone right now. It's the only time she actually feels close to him any longer.

A cool breeze rolls by, bringing a trail of goose bumps to rise up on her naked arms. She inclines heavily against the back of the tombstone, her eyes closing as she imagines that it's not the grave she leaning on, but Michael himself. "Oh, Michael," Her voice is wounded, groggy from all the undeniable crying. "If I didn't love you so much, I think I'd hate you for all the hurt you've caused."

She's said it many times before, but now it comes out more on routine. Why the hell did he have to be such a selfless man? Why couldn't he have come up with a way that ended with both of them sailing off into the sunset, not her and his brother? Or why couldn't he have waited? Two days, just two days. Forty-eight hours after her escape, Paul Kellerman helped her get exonerated again.

She hasn't been a fugitive in ages. And all Sara is left with are unanswered questions' continuously bobbing around in her head.

The sand beneath her bare feet glitters brightly in the setting sunlight, the sky above now dark and turbulent in comparison to warmer seasons. Gone are the bright specks of umbrellas that dot the seashore during the summertime, the sand castles and buckets and children playing happily additionally absent. Tourists don't often come this time of year, and she's glad. They'd ruin this time she had with him.

The ocean ahead is gray and pitiless, angrily crashing against the sand. She's not a suicidal woman, but she frequently catches herself wondering what would happen if she layed down in the waves, staying under for eternity. Would she be able to see Michael again? Would he be waiting at the pearly gates of heaven, or would she be sent to another place completely? Sara isn't very religious, but life would be unbearable if she didn't at least have confidence she'd see him again one day. Maybe she wouldn't, though. There is no doubt in her mind he'd go to heaven, but for herself she isn't so sure. She was a thief, let eight convicted criminal's escape from prison, and even killed people before. These things don't exactly scream innocent.

Knowing that she'd never truly end her own life for the sake of her children, she stands up, dusting off the particles of sand from her dress. Her feet carry her around to the front of the headstone; her body crouching down in sadness, a hand rising up to stroke the engraved words that will forever me memorized.

Michael J. Scofield

10.8.1974 – 11.4.2005

Husband, Father, Brother, Uncle, Friend

_Be the change you want to see in the world_

Sara presses her unsteady lips to the icy stone, kissing the last thing left of Michael. "I love you," She whispers, her words barely capable of being heard.

With that, she picks herself back up, grabs her purse from the picnic table in which she earlier left it on, and leaves the small beachside graveyard. It's been hours, and her time has ended. Her cheeks are red and swollen from all the crying, and she hopes that by the time she gets home the kids will be asleep.

This is everyone's unspoken agreement. November 4th is her day to be sad, to be the miserable little widow everyone expects her to be. But after today, for the other 264 days of the year, she has to hide her despondency. It's time to put on a brave face again.

* * *

**Michael**

_Beep._

That single, shrill variation of a sound is the first decipherable thing he encounters. It conquers the drum of his ears, lifts the heavy weight of nothingness from the body, starts the dead rhythm of his heart, and shakes Michael Scofield back to the world.

_Beep._

He can breathe. Intakes of stinging air fly through his head like a hungry swarm of bees, and he is exasperated by the immediate difference. The vast feeling of having to expel whatever he just brought into his system does not come, and he finds himself bringing it in faster, terrified that the fresh air will soon be taken by smoke. Loads and loads of thick, gray, never-ending smoke.

_Beep. Beep._

Breathing rapidly for a time that could be anywhere between sheer moments and lifetimes, he suddenly halts. There is no ration in using all the air up fleetingly. If it were true that he had only seconds of clean air left, why briskly let it go by? He should savor this instant.

_Beep._

Casually, Michael's inhales and exhales come to be regular, his pounding heart relaxing little by little. Changing attention from the gulps of sweet oxygen, he realizes that it is not the only thing unusual. The index finger of his left finger quivers slightly.

_Beep._

He can move. Curiously, he wiggles all ten of his fingers and toes, the corners of his mouth turning up in a slight smile as he rolls his shoulders. Not only can he now move, he can feel. A peculiar soreness creeps though his build as he stirs, an antique book being open for the first time in years. He can almost touch dust drifting off of him and a firework of satisfaction internally ignites. He is no longer trapped, and once again control of his body. Michael can essentially move his limbs from their locked positions under what feels to be a thin sheet of some sort. Finally. His heart rate picks back up with excitement.

_Beep. Beep._

His better judgment is screaming at him to stop. This is the very part of his dreams where all the trickery ends, greed always managing to take possession of him, and he is sent back to the intoxicating fog. _Don't do it. Don't do it! _Ignoring is inner demands, he pushes his luck. He shoves it far away from him, and takes the final step. In a single fleeting instant of fearlessness, Michael opens his eyes.

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

He can see. From shades of total darkness and charcoal, the world sprouts color. A light switch goes off in his head; one second nothing, then next, everything. He must be laying down on something solid, probably some kind of bed, looking straight up. The ceiling above is pale. Clean, fresh, and white—a dramatic alteration from the darkness once surrounding him. Black to white. Bad to good. A hell to a heaven.

_Beep. Beep._

The feeling of serenity uncontrollably covers him. This is the farthest he's ever gone in his personal purgatory of smoke, and he can't help but feel calm because of it. He's been tricked many times before, but something about now feels different—more real.

_Beep._

Slowly, he extends an arm away from his thigh and out a few inches. Testing out his stamina, Michael puts half of his weight on the hand, then all of it when his strength does not lapse. In one action, he rolls over onto his side and then pushes himself up so that he is no longer lying on the bed, but sitting on it with his legs dangling down on one of the sides. Blood rushes to his head and a stiffness begins to set throughout the entire figure.

_Beep._

He drops his head down to look at his hands. They rest patiently on his lap; taking refuge above a paper thin gown his body wears. He's surprised to see that their not scarred, and even more amazed when the thought comes to him. Wide awake eyes sweep over the tiny patterns imprinted into the frail material, thinking about the little effort it would take to tear. Curiously, his fingers break the paper in one line, an unexpected hiss coming from it.

"_Oh, my god._" There is a sharp intake of air, then something dense clattering to the ground.

His head snapping up, startled, Michael realizes that he is no longer alone. A woman with light hair and blue scrubs stares at his from the open doorway of the room, her eyes wide as she bends down to retrieve her clipboard. Feeling his face scrunch up in confusion, the predicament comes to him.

_Beep. Beep._

He can hear. His head moving to a monitor next to him, he understands it is what the distinct and almost annoying _beep_ is. It is a sound, just as the woman's words are. The deadly audibility of oblivion is over. Bringing his head back to look at the nurse, Michael tries to recall who this person is. He comes up blank.

His toes straighten slightly, the weight of his body pressing down on them until he is no longer sitting on the bed, but instead his pale feet lay flat on the cold, hard, tile. A chill runs violently through him, making him wish he was wearing more than a robe made of paper, or at the very least, something under it. His arms wrap instinctively around his abdomen, only slight relief coming from the action.

Changing thoughts from the low room temperature, he slowly raises his right foot, lifting its partner to match it once it's securely on the ground again. As Michael's body leans forward to meet them, his left hand stays behind. His eyes dart to a white wire leading to a contraption on his finger and a needle sticking to the inside of his forearm for the first time. Grasping that this is the reason stopping him physically from moving forward, he jerks his arm quickly, the clip snapping off his finger and the sharp piece of metal dislodging itself from the skin.

A stinging sensation immediately takes its place, crimson blood forming over the wound.

The nurse finally seems to register that her patient is conscious because she rushes forward; her cheeks flushed with shock. "Oh, sir, those should be left in." Striding over to Michael, she finds a clean needle and puts the IV back into his other arm, along with the clip. Once she is done and has him safely back in the confines of his bed, the nurse tells him not to move around too much and that the doctor will be in to see him soon before hastily leaving again.

_That was strange_, he thinks to himself; bringing his arms back up from the covers she had put over him, trying to remember why he was even here. It appears to be some kind of medical facility, what with the neutral colors, heavy antiseptic smell, and the scrub wearing staff members. As he tries to evoke any memory before the numbing fog of his catalepsy, he feels a mental brick wall spring up. A burning feeling faintly sparks in his unmarked hands, but nothing more.

Fear to the unknown builds up in Michael's chest. _Where the hell am I? Why am I here? _So many inquiries pulse through his head, and as if on cue, the doctor walks in the next instant. A look of wonder fills his facial features as he steps through the entryway, his expression mirroring the one of the orderly behind him. His graying hair seems windblown—like he'd run the moment he'd heard the news. Michael feels the doctor staring at him, and he pulls the blankets closer to him self-consciously.

"Miraculous," He whispers to the nurse who bobs her head in agreement. An animated gleam lights his eyes, and he steps closer to the patient, one hand held out cautiously. "My name is Dr. James Holden."

Michael looks at the hand suspiciously, muddled by the doctor's bizarre behavior. Reluctantly, he decides to shake it, more to comfort the physician than anything else, and sits up from the fluffed pillow behind his back. He remains silent, so the two professionals choose to start filling the awkward peace with medical jibber-jabber that he has trouble understanding. His confused expression must be common, because Dr. Holden gives a sympathetic gesture and sits down in an empty chair facing across from him.

"Sir," He begins with the same introduction that the nurse had given. "You've been in a coma for exactly four years."

His entire body freezes, each muscle tightening up in utter disbelief. The face goes slack; mouth slightly ajar, color draining from his skin. Michael stares wide-eyed at the doctor, even more confused than before, the words 'Y_ou've been in a coma for exactly four years' _echoing loudly in his head. It doesn't make any sense. Four years…that's a very long time.

The doctor continues to talk; disregarding Michael's shocked manners all together. He must get them a lot. "I was working late when you were dropped off here. It was early November of '05 and you had terrible electrical burns running up and down your arms. You were barely conscious, muttering incoherent things the whole time, and by morning the next day you were completely unresponsive."

He takes in what the doctor is saying. He can't remember any of what the doctor's saying. Finding his voice for the first time in, well, four years, he responds hoarsely. "H-how did I receive the electrical burns?"

"Uh," Dr. Holden looks to the nurse for help, but to no avail. "I'm sorry. We don't know anything about you. You were anonymously dropped off, and have had no visitors since. The burns could have been from wiring, but we're not sure. We were hoping you could tell us."

Michael looks at them, taken aback. Specialists who are asking the _patient_ the questions? Again he desperately tries searching his memory for anything that can make this situation better. Anything. His head falls into his hands when the compact wall keeping him out of his own recollection stays strong. "I'm sorry," He whispers, terrified. "I have no idea who I am."

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	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Love & Hate**

**Sara**

Her clenched fist rises up, coming down hard on the wooden door to make a sudden hollow echo with her knuckles twice. Not too loud, but sure to get attention. The arm falls back to her side, relaxing against the soft fabric of her dress, and she turns around to gaze out at the dim street. The hike from the cemetery had given her skin time to change back to its normal fair color, and the sky to do the same. Now, nearly nine o'clock at night, the moon rests big and full in the overhead atmosphere, casting apathetic shadows down on unadorned Panama soil.

Mentally, Sara traces the shapes, coming up with random correspondences to everyday things. It's not that she particularly enjoys participating in this simpleminded task, but it's more out of regular habit. As a mom of two three year olds, it's her responsibility to come up with small games like these to make the time pass more effortlessly. Tonight, the shadows appear to be swaying figures, dancing gracefully across the territory.

The front porch light flashes on, showing that someone has heard her knocking, and she hastily rotates back around to meet them. A familiar face welcomes her, but she's still shocked to see him. "LJ?" She cries out in surprise, immediately leaning forward to give him a big hug. "What are you doing here?"

The once lanky build of a teenage boy is gone, replaced by muscles rippling up his arms and abdomen. His hair is also cropped closer to his head, although not nearly as short as his fathers, and gelled handsomely up in the front. "Hey, Aunt Sara," He says with a grin, gingerly putting her back on her feet. "We just got in a few hours ago. There was some kind of freak explosion at the university and they sent us all home while they renovate."

She nods her head, a smile stretching across her face as well. "I wish there'd been a disaster when I was in med school. Could have really used the extra study time."

He stifles out a snort. "Because that's _exactly_ what I'll be using my mini-vacation to do." They walk casually through the threshold, shutting out the warm air behind them. The constant temperature here is an astounding average of 82 degrees. Even the winter months hold up the fever without complication, resulting in year-round air conditioning. Lincoln tends to be a stickler about not wasting any it.

"Well," She warns, striding inside the house behind him. "According to your dad, you need it. He was pretty mad when he heard about last semester's final grades." Trapping the cool air isn't the only thing he gets anxious about.

LJ's head hangs low when he hears his aunt's half joking-half serious words. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Hannah was pissed too."

The party must be held outside, because the house is completely empty. Deserting her for a few moments, LJ heads to the kitchen, and Sara is left to inspect the small area. There is a couch, an overused recliner, and a TV; the typical furnishings of a living room. Pictures of the family naturally hang from the walls, beaming back at her. She's been in this very room many times before, and it feels like a second home to her. Her fingers reach up to stroke a photo, one she's seen time and time again, but looks at the beauty of it for the first time. Big blue eyes framed by long lashes, short dark hair, a smile that makes her heart melt. Michael stares back at her motionlessly, a smile forever frozen on his lips, and she tries to remember how it felt kissing them. The warmth, the love, the desire…

"Do you want a beer?" LJ's call from the kitchen rips her from her thoughts, and she steps away from the old college photo. Her actions are solely blamed on the time; Sara's still a little keyed up from earlier. She's not usually this emotional. Her head snaps in the direction of the sound, realizing that he's still riffling through the refrigerator, his vision being blocked by the open door.

_Good_. That means he didn't see.

Sara doesn't need him telling his father about this little episode, which would most likely only result in her return to therapy. "Uh, sure." A drink would be good. Scratch that, a drink would be _perfect _right now. Seconds later, her nephew comes strolling out of the kitchen, a frosty glass bottle in each hand. Her arm happily comes up to take one from his grasp, and he smirks at her eagerness. She swallows half the container in one gulp.

"Someone's thirsty," His comment is said once they've reached the sliding glass doors leading to the back patio, the weak sound of cheering and intoxicated chatter spilling into the house once the doors are opened.

Her head tilts to the side, viewing him with a look of lighthearted irritation. "Like you would know. Are you even old enough to be drinking that?" She points to the beer held loosely in his hand, teasing him about his age. Of course she remembers his twenty-first birthday; it was just the past summer after all.

"Now would I break the law?" His face glows with innocence, giving LJ the appearance of the scared adolescent he was just years ago. "You know how tightly wound and law biting this family is."

At his words, she has to throw back her head and laugh, and she's not even drunk yet. Tightly wound, maybe, but law biting? This family is anything but. Almost everyone has spent time in prison sometime or another, and just about all of them broke out of it. Jokes like this circulate quite frequently, and it's amusing how no one seems ashamed of their time in jail. Sara has caught Lincoln telling the kids about death row as if it's as typical as high school—something everyone will unavoidably go through. And not just once, but multiple times. "Oh, yes."

Both of them chuckling, they finally make their way out to the back yard. As her eyes slowly adjust to the indistinct lights of the evening, Sara is bombarded by a chorus of greetings and hugs, everyone clearly startled by her presence. This gathering used to antagonize her, feeling like a slap in the face to everyone involved. Eventually, though, she grew to accept that it was in celebration of his life—not his death, but she still didn't attend. It was too much for her to handle.

This year, something changed, however. After leaving the beach, she'd set out for home, which was right down the street from Lincoln and Sofia's house. When it came time for Sara to turn into her own dirt driveway, her legs had taken over against her better judgment. And next thing she knew, she was knocking on their door.

"Well, well, well." Lincoln says, walking over to pull her into a brief hold. "Look who decided to drop by."

Hearing his words, she shrugs her shoulders, taking account of all people here. Alex is the farthest away, leaning calmly against the bar and looking up at the sky, similar to what she herself had done just minutes prior. A few feet away from him, Fernando Sucre is dancing to some rather festive music with Katie, the feeble sound of her giggles bringing a smile to Sara's face. Next, sitting on a dark wrought iron bench is LJ's girlfriend Hannah, her emerald green eyes peeking out between long locks to stare happily at Michael junior who is playing with a toy truck on the ground. Michael absolutely adores Hannah, and the same can be told switched around. Lastly, Sofia stands beside Lincoln, and is the following to give her a hug, whispering encouraging fraises in her ears.

Once everyone is done with their hellos, they go back to whatever it was that they were doing before, LJ walking over to join Hannah on the seat above the little boy. Sara waves to her children, but they seem very focused, only giving her casual "Hi, Mama"'s without even making eye contact. There is a twinge of hurt, but she can't find it within herself to be angry because of their behavior. After all, both their parents were very independent people—well, Sara once was. Lately, she's been finding herself depending on people more and more, and it's starting to scare her. Without knowing it, she had grown so involved with Michael that when he died, it nearly killed her as well.

She knows that if someone else she loved were to perish, she wouldn't be able to survive it this time. That she's certain of.

Feeling slightly awkward by everyone's lack of acknowledgement, but also partly pleased, Sara decides to join Alex. Underneath all the bravado of an FBI agent, he is really a very gentle person. Soft spoken though determined, kind but willing to go to great lengths to achieve a goal. For some reason, he always reminded her the most of her husband. Sure, Lincoln was his brother, Sucre was his best friend, and Katie and Michael were his children—and occasionally she would see something that sparked tribute. But going off general personality, Alex Mahone wins every time. And despite past conflict, Sara has genuinely grown to like this man.

Pulling back a barstool, she takes a seat beside him, letting her bag fall to the counter. Alex's eyes flicker in her direction for a moment before settling back up at the stars. She watches the wrinkles around his forehead crease into lines, the corners of his mouth tugging up into a smile. "How have you been, Sara?" He asks softly, his eyes still trained at the sky.

She is asked this question so repeatedly, it's almost instinctive to answer with 'I'm fine.' People don't want to know how you really are, it's that simple. They want to know you're fine, even if you aren't. Is Sara fine? Perhaps. She gets from day to day, attends family gatherings, and cares for two children as well as herself. She keeps the house tidy, the kids never go to bed after eight o'clock (with the rare exception of tonight), and she enjoys a glass of wine now and again. She has made friends with some people from the market, and has dinner with Sofia and Lincoln at least twice a week. This should all qualify as 'fine' shouldn't it? "I'm getting by."

His hand comes to rest on hers lightly, a sympathetic expression crossing his features. He knows what it means to just get by. It's as if you're standing on an island, looking out at distant figures on the surrounding horizon, screaming at the top of your lungs for help. You're stuck, and scared, and completely alone. In the art of getting by, no one knows you're hurting. No one can hear you, and part of you doesn't want them to. You're going through the motions of everyday life, but not _living _it.

She gives his offered fingers a kind squeeze, the sadness that comes along with the day inevitably resurfacing. Right after Michael died, the sorrow was always there. Depression struck almost everyone in the family, but Sara was by far the worst off. She had to constantly be _feeling_ part of him, either it was throwing up her food every morning or having her belly laced with stretch marks later on, he was always there. And it was absolutely terrible. Her dreams were constantly haunted by what could have been. _Doctors' appointments, black and white photos of the baby, buying a house, painting the nursery…_It was all so painful, especially when she woke up alone in the bed, crying her eyes out. They weren't nightmares, they were far more frightening.

She was always at odds with herself, going back and forth between emotions. Yes, she loved him. But a part of her absolutely _hated_ him for putting her through this. Those nine months were a very confusing time for her, all the love and the hate blurring together in her mind. After painstakingly delivering not one, but two screaming children, she had finally come to a decision though. She hated him, _because_ she loved him, and now it's her own little inside joke that she tells his grave sometimes.

Her whole life, she'd been so independent, not ever trusting people. Her mother had died years ago, and her father was always busy with politics. Sara had turned to drugs as a support system, as a way out. The part of herself yearning for an others love had been burning like a fire, begging to be set free, and the morphine had satisfied that growing hunger. No, not satisfied, but numbed. In a strange sense, Michael Scofield had become her morphine. He made her feel special, and loved, and happy. But unlike the drug, he hadn't numbed her. She could feel it all, and it was great. For the first time ever in her life, her future didn't scare her. Sara knew where it was going, _liked_ where it was going. It was all planned out, and then all of a sudden it wasn't. She was arrested, and Michael being Michael had to die breaking her out.

The universe just couldn't let them be happy.

Being torn from her somber thoughts, there is an abrupt clanging of glass and silverware up near where she had just come out close to ten minutes ago. "Uh, can we get everyone's attention?" Instantly, all heads outside on the patio snap in the direction of the sound, clear confusion written across each face. The culprit is easily spotted, standing dominantly in front of the group with a wineglass held firmly in one hand and a fork in the other. LJ looks around at his friends and family, a grin spreading across his face as he opens his mouth to speak again, a massive bicep wrapping it way around his girlfriend who stands just slightly behind him.

"We have something to tell everyone." Both are now smiling from ear to ear, their faces brimming with happiness as they offer each other knowing facial expressions. Hannah nods to LJ, giving him a mixture between confidence and permission to continue.

Beating them to the punch line, though, Lincoln jumps up from his seat in anger, an arm shooting out in front of him erratically. "You got her pregnant, didn't you?" He growls, appearing as if he's ready to charge towards his one and only son. "Didn't you!"

Fear fills LJ's eyes, his own hands coming up in surrender—or maybe it's to protect himself. Sara isn't quite sure. The whole situation…it's so strange. One second, she's daydreaming, and the next Lincoln is practically convulsing in fury just four yards. She feels both of her children fasten their tiny arms around her knees, their cobalt eyes looking up at her in panic. They must have run to their mother after hearing their uncle become uncharacteristically cross. Her hands pat their tiny heads and she kneels down to be eye level with them, giving their foreheads a kiss before murmuring "It's okay," over and over again in their ears. Once the twins have calmed down, all three turn their gazes back to the excitement without hesitation.

LJ has now taken a protective stance in front of Hannah, Sofia desperately trying to stop any further argument by laying a gentle hand on her significant other's trembling shoulder. "Shhh…Lincoln you're scaring the child." She rumors in desperation.

"Yeah, come on Linc!" Sucre calls, taking a step forward as well. "Calm the hell down!"

Lincoln's eyes flicker to Katie and Michael's petrified expressions for just a second before resonating back into a glare towards the two college students. "I can't believe this!" Sofia and Sucre's attempt at composure seems to have helped because his tone is now significantly lower in octave. "How the hell could this have happened?!" Even though he knows damn well how it happened.

"No!" This time it's Hannah to speak, her voice muffled from behind LJ's enormous form. However quiet, there is a sense of finality to her voice, the single word managing to transmit throughout the entire patio in determination. If they weren't paying attention before, then they sure are now. Every head rotates to look at the petite blonde, shock at her outburst too much to overlook. Hannah is usually so modest.

Grabbing hold of LJ's hand, she has enough confidence to say what he was unable to. "I'm not pregnant, so could you please sit back down?" Embarrassment instantly fills Lincoln's face as he realizes what a mistake he's just made. His whole demeanor promptly changes; each arm slackening as he gives a nearly inaudible apology, the skin of his face once red with anger but now only flushed in mortification. "Thank you. Now if you don't mind," She shoots him one last glance of annoyance. "LJ and I have some really exciting news!"

Now that everyone—well, really only Lincoln—has pacified, the earlier smiles have returned. Before anyone else can interrupt, they look one last time at each other with enthusiasm in their eyes, and turn to the eagerly awaiting crowd. "We're getting married!" They cry in unison as Sofia right away jumps back up from the lawn furniture to give the newly engaged couple hugs and congratulations. Naturally sight of the ring is asked and Sucre and even Alex step forward to see. "The wedding will be held in seven months, on Saturday, June 6th!" Sara feels both Katie and Michael release their grasps as even they run forward to join the gathering. It's not that they understand what's going on, but more out of doing what everyone else is. _Jeez, my three year olds are more social then I am_, she thinks bitterly.

Of course she's happy for Hannah and LJ; Michael's not the only one who absolutely loves her, and Sara knows she will make a wonderful wife. It's just…she'd rather give everyone else the chance to acknowledge. She'll come forward later. Her eyes land on Lincoln who's still sitting down appearing as if he's a little confused with what's going on. Sara slowly makes her way to him, and then parks herself in the spot Sofia was just sitting minutes ago.

Lincoln looks up at the sudden warmth of a new body. "Hey…"

With a mirroring expression, Sara gives his arm a steady pat. "Hey."

"Would you say I just made a gigantic ass of myself, or colossal?"

She takes a moment to think over his question, a finger coming to her lips as she pretends to ponder. "Hmm…that depends. Are you going to continue moping around down here on a bench, or actually congratulate your son and soon to be daughter-in-law already?"

His arm rises up to rest across Sara's shoulders, a timid smile gradually appearing. "You're right. Thanks for not rubbing it in my face."

He leaves her a soft kiss on the cheek, ready to stand up and join the rest of his family when Sara can't help but add something more that had been gnawing at the back of her thoughts since the announcement. "Well, you'll be getting enough grief sent your way the next few months. You don't need by assistance."

There is clear confusion by the way he knit's his eyebrows together at her statement. "What…why?"

Without even blinking, she holds back a snort while continuing. "Think about how pissed Sofia will be that one Burrows can commit to his college sweet-heart at the age of twenty-one, and the other—who's pushing forty, might I add—won't even go anywhere near a jeweler. There'll be hell to pay."

Something very rare on the face of Lincoln Burrows conquers his features, twisting them up in fear. He knows exactly what Sara is referring to. For the past two years Sofia has been dropping hints nonstop about getting married, and she'd even discussed it with Sara herself a few times. Sofia had straightforwardly asked her how she ever got Michael to propose, and her answer was pretty simple; get knocked up. After all, that's pretty much the reason they married so quickly. It's not that they didn't do it for love, because god knows how crazy they were of each other, but the unplanned pregnancy definitely pushed them in the right direction. By no means was Sara telling Sofia to have a baby, but it was more her way of saying that she wasn't really a good source for marital advice. She was locked in prison for all of the brief marriage, and when she finally got out, Michael was already gone.

Lincoln grimaces as his thoughts no doubt echo Sara's. "Oh, god."

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* * *

_**A/N**_

_**Sorry it's been so long! Thanks for everything who has read the story, followed, favorited, reviewed, and whatever else! They mean a lot! Oh and I think I wasn't able to update faster because I was suffering major writers block. Last week I began watching Prison Break again, and next thing I know I've written two chapters! What can I say...I'm obsessed. **_

_**Hopefully I'll update sooner**_

_**xoxox**_

_**-secretlife1201**_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Slight Recollection**

**Michael**

His newly functioning eyes stare persistently at the clock hanging on the facing wall, the slow moving hands mocking him to no end. The faint '_tick_' is the only thing filling both his head and the room, the absence of words beginning to result in awkwardness between the two beings. After the reawakening, Michael had felt entirely rejuvenated. Clean, and new again. Ready to learn everything that he'd missed. But now hours later, the ongoing questioning has worn him to near oblivion once more. Lying in the hospital bed, looking indifferently at the assigned therapist, he almost wishes he was still out cold.

"Alright," Says the counselor, looking over some papers in a virtually vacant manila folder. She flips her frizzy hair behind the shoulder of her neutral toned pantsuit, unappealingly snapping her chewing gum in the process. "What do we know again? You're from early to mid-thirties in age, dark hair, blue eyes, Caucasian…"

_No shit. That's just about half the United States._ Michael thinks irritably, silently wondering how the hell he can remember an entire country's population, yet not his own name.

"…there are some abnormalities listed here, though." She stabs the paper with a steady finger. "It says that you're missing two toes on your left foot. Do you remember anything about this?"

That's odd. He looks down and realizes for the first time that his pinky toe and the one adjacent are in fact absent. Michael does not know why this is, however, and just shrugs his shoulders. "No," He replies simply.

She doesn't look up as she continues to read the file. "Apparently, you also suffer from LLI—Low Latent Inhibition, a psychological condition in which you see the world as pieces, rather than mere objects. It's incredibly rare and could be hereditary."

That explains the strange vision problems he's been having. It's hard for him to focus because his eyes look at one thing, and end up seeing everything that makes it up instead. The internal springs and coils, so to speak. He picks up every detail, even if he isn't looking at them straight. It's kind of annoying actually, because unlike a normal functioning brain, he sees the whole shebang. Even if it's absolutely irrelevant.

"The doctors believe that electrical shock of some kind is what caused your body to go into the comatose state, and judging by the light scars that stretch up and down your arms, you were holding the thing that electrocuted you. Quite frankly, it's a miracle you're still alive. But what's unusual is that there seems to be scarring on her abdomen and back as well—they weren't fresh when you came, meaning they happened before the electrocution. I've seen similar scarring before, and it was on someone who had a tattoo lasered off. It's looks as if almost half your body was covered in tats at one point. That could maybe help us make an identification…" She continues to explain things he's already heard, and any remaining interest in the conversation is diminished. The therapist doesn't know anything he doesn't, and is rendered useless to him.

Her tedious words slowly fade to the background, becoming a distant hum as Michael leans back in the bed, an ache beginning in the pit of his stomach. The white of the sheets, the sickly sweet smell that has managed to take residence in every inch of this place—he hates it all. No spark of recognition has been lit, and he is sure it's because nothing about this hospital is familiar. He's in uncharted waters in a manner of speaking. And a mousy looking shrink with about as much charm as an empty tissue box won't change anything.

The therapist, who has continued to babble on for the past twenty or so minutes suddenly stops, her silence enough to break Michael out of his thoughts for a moment. She must have ultimately realized that his attention is nowhere near her or the words she nonchalantly spits out, because with a slightly aggravated sigh, she stands from the uncomfortable infirmary chair. "Okay, I'll come back tomorrow. I can see you're overwhelmed, so I'm just going to go."

With that, she leaves the room, and Michael is able to let out a grateful exhale. Her presence wasn't anything but a distraction.

He brings the pointer finger of each hand to rest against his temples, aggressively rubbing in circular motions. The act of concentration does not ease the mind at all, though, and he closes his eyes in defeat. Being trapped in a purgatory of smoke for four years—that had felt like hell. Nothing is worse than having every one of your senses cut off, or so he thought. Actually, there is worse fate, and that's having your entire life ripped away from you. Every emotion your body happens to come across is now intensified, because there isn't anything else for your mind to process.

This makes logic of Michael's over-reactive anger towards the therapist—she will remain nameless due to the fact he quite frankly doesn't care to learn it. Why fill his head with unrelated information, especially while he is doing his best to do the complete opposite? Sure, Dr. Holden had said that after such an extensive time of unconsciousness, memory loss of any kind is normal, but it still manages to frighten Michael. Between the good doctor's positive thinking and inspiring words, he had detected some suggestions that pointed in the direction of irregularity.

"_The brain is a very delicate thing. Only three little pounds; and it's the whole reason we are who we are." _He recalls him explaining earlier. _"Being a neurologist, I've seen so many different cases—brain diseases, cancers, amnesia, tumors…the list goes on and on." _With each problem, he had let go of a finger for emphasis. "_But each case is dissimilar. People respond to things differently. So to answer your question; 'will I ever remember?' to the best of my abilities, I'm going to say this; be tolerant. You've just woken up, and a lot is stimulating the mind right now. You need to calm down, and the memories might just come flooding back."_

He could tell that his case wasn't as usual as Dr. Holden was trying to make it seem. There were hints hidden here and there within the subtext; a nervous biting of the lips, a trembling in the fingers. Michael had been able to pick in all up without even realizing it, and he knows that his memory loss is too broad to be classified as normal. The sensible part of him, the part that could process numbers better than descriptive poetry, had then gone on to ask for the statistics point blank.

Reluctantly, he was filled in. There in a 95% chance of regaining any sort of memory of his past, but that percentage drops nearly five points with each passing day. The longer it goes on, the less chance there will ever be. And out of the hundreds of patients the doctor had helped with similar problems mirroring Michael's, twelve had been able to recuperate to their original state.

Only twelve.

Frustration flairs through him as the imaginary brick wall comes creeping back up, stopping him from entering his own thoughts any further. _Christ. _He internally growls, mentally fighting himself, trying to tear down a barrier that's not physically there. _This is impossible_. Waking up, being here in the hospital, the unlimited string of doctors, it's has all felt like a daze. Again, nothing about this atmosphere triggers any explanatory emotion or feeling. Before, in the nightmares of the coma, he was in so much pain. Pain that he'd do anything to get out of. His bewilderment kept him kicking, fighting his way out for years. But now…now that he's out, he's not sure what he wants anymore. This is life? This is what he was so eager to get back to?

_Knock, knock._

His neck snaps in the direction of the sound, knowing that only a doctor would knock like that. Quick and polite. Sure enough, a physician with long dark hair and a white lab coat stands at the entryway, a medium sized box being held firmly against her waist. The woman gives him a weak smile before stepping inside the room and shutting the door behind her.

"Uh, hi," She says awkwardly, proceeding with caution towards the bed, causing Michael to furrow his brow in confusion. This isn't his doctor, nor has he ever seen her before. Though, it's not like he's ever seen anyone else here. "I'm Dr. Emily Marin. You don't know me, but when you were first admitted I was here as an intern to Dr. Holden."

As he looks closer at the waves that hang past her shoulders, Michael can make out a hint of red bouncing off the individual strands from the overhanging lights. For some reason, his chest tightens at the sight. He coughs twice at the discomfort, and then looks to the woman once more, struck by her appearance.

She keeps talking, clearly uncomfortable by his lack of words. "Well, um, here are the clothes you were wearing when you came four years ago. Dr. Holden thought it might help you remember." Dr. Marin sets the box onto the foot of his bed, nods as if reassuring herself of something, and then quickly demises herself from the room. The whole exchange goes down in about two minutes, and Michael finds himself slightly confused after she has left. All the other professionals he'd encountered in the past few hours had appeared very arrogant and omniscient, while she on the other hand…seemed awkward and embarrassed.

It was actually quite refreshing to meet an employee at this hospital who wasn't annoyingly egotistical and brimming with self-confidence.

Still somewhat muddled, he leans forward from beneath the covers, his fingers hungrily reaching for the box. It's a simple, and much like everything else in this facility, white container, made of thin cardboard and a nice little tag that spells 'John Doe' on the side. _So, I guess I do have a name. _Without second thought, he rips the lid off in haste, the strange doctor completely forgotten and his mind now only on one thing. Though he knows that nothing will probably come of this, he can't help but get excited. Pulling the package closer, he bows his head over the opening, his eyes finding the only things left of his past.

And to be honest, there isn't much.

His hand stretches into the box, finding a greenish gray canvas jacket. There is a collar that ends without any hood, and many different zippers leading to closed pockets. He holds it by the shoulders, as he would if an actual person were wearing it, and aggressively shakes it. Nothing happens, not that he was expecting anything to, and quickly moves onto the next article of clothing. A pair of dark blue jeans. Again Michael goes through the motions of holding them up, wringing them out, and then feeling mildly disappointed at the absence of progress. Slumping even farther onward, the mattress trembles due to the alteration of weight distribution, and the jacket slides to the floor.

From the corner of his eye, he sees the coat lay wrinkled on the ground, but once again finds himself not caring. Immediately, he goes back to the box, though any remaining interest he had quickly diminishes when he finds that all that is left is an old pair of sneakers. That's it. No wallet. No source of identification. No chance of getting any closer to finding his life. Without meaning to, a growl is released between his taught with anger lips, an abrupt hatred for Dr. Marin seeping into his body for the hope she'd inadvertently given him.

Furiously, he jumps off of the bed, wanting to be as far away from that godforsaken box as possible. The furniture rattles again, but he ignores it easily, instead his foot finding the fallen jacket. In one swift motion, he kicks it and waits for some kind of pleasure to come from the stroke. No such luck. But instead, something even better unexpectedly does.

The casing coasts across the room, the canvas making a sharp sound as it slaps against the tile, but he is no longer watching the situation to even see where it lands. No, his eyes are now trained on a single slip of paper that managed to soar out of one of the many pockets on the flight over. Instinctively, he walks the feet in seconds and bends down to pick up the folded piece of paper, curiosity outweighing the possibility that it is nothing of use, any hatred and anger soon forgotten. If this helps, he might just _love_ Dr. Marin for her help.

Michael's fingers clasp the paper, its smooth surface uncharacteristically warm, unlike everything else here. As if it has a heartbeat of its own. Laying it out flat on the palm of his hand, he notices that it's folded into the shape of some sort of bird. A crane to be exact. Quickly, he rips the parchment open from its original form, soon realizing that this isn't just a scrap of meaningless origami. It's a letter, written in long hand and black ink.

_11/4/05_

_Dear Michael,_

_I don't know why, but the thought of writing letters always scared me for some reason. I could write a five page medical essay no problem, even typing up a memo of some kind wasn't too bad. When it came time to bringing my personal life into things, that's when it got difficult. I'm talking placing pen to paper and turning all my deepest thoughts to tangible words and phrases. I was always so frightened that I'd mess up, or worse yet, have nothing to say. You never seemed to have that issue, though, and I think it's time for me to face my fears. So I've decided to finally try one of my own in return. _

_Keep in mind; it won't be nearly as beautiful as yours. _

_I've been thinking a lot about right and wrong lately. As you know, there's so much free time here in prison. Sometimes my mind just starts wandering to things I usually don't think about, and I've come up with a theory. Like love or beauty, general principals belong to that of the beholder. It's all a matter of perspective. _

_Think about the company. They were doing what they thought was right, even though to us it was __really__ wrong. People don't purposely do wrong. We as the observer are the ones to choose sides, claiming one to be good, and the other to be bad. When you broke Lincoln out of prison, you thought you were doing what was right, and when I left that door open I was agreeing with you, although it looked as if everyone else on the planet thought otherwise. Then in Panama, you went to jail for a crime you didn't commit, all because you thought it was the right thing to do (I'm not even going to get into how wrong it was for you to take the blame for me. That would completely contradict this letter) Now, tonight, you're trying to break me out because you think that it's what's right. The police think it's wrong, that I am a guilty woman who killed an innocent one. I'm not saying that I'm by any means innocent; after all I did kill Kristina. I just couldn't bear the thought losing you. So I did what I thought was right. _

_(Is it just me, or am I always saving you ass?)_

_What I'm trying to get at, is don't ever think that what you did was wrong. I believe you to be a great man, even though when people here your name they automatically think of the escape(s). You are the most selfless person I have ever met. You always do what you think is right, and it is just one of the many reasons I love you. Being here has been hell, but not for the reason you think. I've missed you so much, and it kills me when they ring that bell whenever I try to touch you. So much for any sort of honeymoon. _

_If all goes well tonight, we're reading this together right now. If it didn't…well I guess you're in prison again or I am. Either way, we aren't together and I needed you to know this. _

_I love you. I miss you. And I know we'll see each other soon. _

_Love, _

_Sara_

_P.S. I enclosed a picture of the baby. What do you think? Doesn't he look like a Scofield? _

His entire body tenses, every finger stiffening against the paper as he rereads the astounding words. He has a name. Michael Scofield. He feels like a Michael, though the title isn't the least bit familiar. The rest of the note goes through his head on loop, each verse quickly memorized without any initial intention of doing so. No doctor could have given him this information, which somehow explains everything and absolutely nothing at the same time. There was no mention of his home, family, or even what he does for a living, so to anyone else, this would be useless. A meaningless love letter. But to him, it is the most valuable thing he'd received since waking up.

Still…these answers only seem to bring more questions. Most of what is said, well it makes no sense. Michael understands that a woman is writing to him; possibly a wife, judging by the manner of it all. And a pregnant one at that. He looks down at the back and white ultrasound photo, his chest uncontrollably tightening at the sight. It looks like a bunch of blurred lines and shapes, though two very distinct circles stick together in the middle to picture to form a kidney bean. Wow, he's going to be a father. No—scratch that—he _is _a father.

But aside from that, everything gets confusing. His probable, pregnant wife is in prison; a place he's apparently been in himself. And to top it all off, that night he was induced into the coma, he was trying to break her out of said place, something he has evidently done before.

_Who the hell am I?_

Next thing he knows, Michael's legs are carrying him to the small bathroom connected to the main, the message still clutched tightly in his hand. He walks briskly to sink, splashes cold water into his face, and then stands back up from the hunched over position he'd automatically taken. Gazing into the mirror, he takes account of the alien face shining back at him for the first time. His eyes sweep over the shoulder length dark hair, observing the streaks of silver distributed precisely throughout his head, a thick beard to match hanging inches past his face. Bright blue eyes peek out at him through all the hair, giving him an inquisitive expression.

"Michael Scofield." He tries out the words, his breath causing condensation to settle onto the reflecting glass. Nothing. No twinge of recollection, no firework that suddenly brings back everything he's forgotten. His own name seems foreign.

Not knowing who you are…it's a very lonely feeling. You're scared, and angry, and so isolated that company of any kind feels foreign. It's not like being a child; you still know the fundamentals of life. You know why the sky is blue, and what two-plus-two equals, and all the things you learned before the coma. But the personal things, the things that made you, _you_, it's all gone.

That letter doesn't really change anything. Not in retrospect, anyway. Michael still feels lost, and now sad. The women who wrote that wonderful letter, this 'Sara', he knows he must have broken her heart. Something in the plan of breaking her out of jail must have gone wrong. He must have screwed up somehow, because otherwise, he's sure that she'd be here waiting for him. A part of him even _wants _her to be here.

"Sara," Unlike before, he does feel something when he says her name—an acquainted ache begins in his heart, and he can't help but smiling at the difference. Images of an earlier lab coat and long, auburn hair flash through his head, though the accompanying face slightly off. His Sara has higher cheekbones than Dr. Marin, he's sure of that. And beautiful brown eyes instead of the dull gray. But the similarity is striking enough to be of assistance, and he's grateful for that.

Nothing else is clear enough for him to see, but that face…that gorgeous face. Though he doesn't remember all of her, he knows that he loved her. That he still loves her.

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	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: The Calm after a Storm**

**Sara**

The soft fibers of the sheets lay gently against her face as she tosses and turns for what feels like the millionth time that night, the faint scent of the laundry detergent resurfacing from the last wash. It smells almost like lilac, but it could very well end up being something completely different. Sara doesn't remember, nor is it relevant. She exhales, her eyes scrunching closed while she tries to block out the time glowing brightly from the clock next to her bed. It's no use, however, because she has already seen the hour. 3:43 a.m. _Ugh_. Nearly four hours before she usually rises. Flipping to her other side, she tries refluffing the pillow, though knowing full well that this will not change anything.

It never does.

Four years…four years and it seems like Sara hasn't slept in at least five. _I guess Michael Scofield has that effect on people_, she inaudibly comments, here lips pulling up briefly into a grin as she realizes the double meaning to her words. She can't remember the last time she slept soundly, though there is no longer any excuse. Men wearing black suits and detached expressions aren't following her, a woman named Gretchen Morgan isn't afflicting pain or pretending to behead her, and the shrill sound of babies crying hasn't filled the air since Mikey and Katie traded in the cribs for real beds.

The balance of life is once again restored, but that doesn't mean Sara herself is. How can someone with so much agony in their heart, someone who has lost almost everything they've ever cared about, ever be capable of feeling 'restored'? It's not that she hasn't tried, god knows she has. Her kids are her entire life, and she loves being a mother. But…aside from that. She has next to no personal life, let alone a romantic or sexual one. And the worst part is that she doesn't even care. Despite Sofia's many—failed, might she add—attempts at finding her someone, she can't bring herself to even show up for the date. It's physically painful to think of being with anyone other than Michael.

They say there are five stages of grief, five stepping stones in which someone has to cross over before they can finally be content. But she's not even sure where her current state of mind belongs anymore.

First was denial and isolation. In this stage you refuse to believe what has happened. It was so easy to think he was going to come back, that he hadn't died while trying to save her life. Sara would often find herself talking to him, as if he were right there beside her. '_Michael, they said that there are two heartbeats!' _She recalls telling the air after a doctor's appointment when she was about four months in. _'We're having twins!' _In her mind, she would try to tell herself that life was as it was before the loss.

Next was anger. After coming to terms with the fact that she would never, ever see him again, she got angry. Really angry. It was towards the end of the pregnancy, and it would manifest in many different ways. Sometimes she would blame law enforcement, others she'd be blaming herself, and most of all she blamed _him_. How could he have done that? Why couldn't he wait for Kellerman to come? Why did he have to be so damn noble? The rage was blinding, and almost always there.

Once the babies were born, a bargaining of sorts soon began. Though she isn't religious, she would frequently be begging god to bring Michael back. Sara would repeatedly offer things in exchange, trying to take away the reality of what had happened. She would try to make deals to have him come back as he was before, ten toed and tumor free. This negotiating started after watching the children grow, progressing remarkably quickly, and her thinking about the fact their father would never meet them. He wouldn't be there for any holidays, or their graduations, or even there to walk Katie down the aisle one day. These thoughts were so painful, she's sure it's what started the downward spiral to the next step.

And the following was depression. Though it is a very likely outcome for all people that grieve, this stage managed to scare the family the most. The other phases were understandable and Lincoln had taken them in stride. But this one…it was terrible. Neither he nor Sofia knew how to help her other than by taking the kids off her hands for a few months and checking her into therapy. Sara was always tired (this time being the one exception to her absence of sleep over the past five years), sleeping late into the morning and then going back to her room before dinner. Also, she would be having a conversation with you, acting completely normal, and the next she'd be bursting into helpless tears. She'd even told her therapist before that she found no purpose to life any longer. The Burrows were doing a great job raising Katie and Michael, and she was finding even more fault in herself with what was happened then before. Sara's smiles looked like grimaces, and many were afraid she'd begin using again. Thankfully, she didn't.

Acceptance was the fifth step. It was the twins first birthday, an event the Sucre's and Alex and Felicia had all come down for, when she realized that life had to go on. They had all gathered around the highchairs, a piece of cake on each, singing happy birthday when it hit her that these people had all been there for her sometime or another. She could see her pain mirrored in everyone's faces when they looked at her, a glassy finish on every gentle expression she'd receive, and she knew that she had to get better for their sakes. This isn't what Michael would have wanted, something they'd all been telling her since he died, and she couldn't have someone else raising their children. She just couldn't. So from there, she started waking earlier, eating more, and the kids eventually moved back in with her. She became more active in everyone's lives, showing them exactly what they wanted to see, and a year later they finally let her quit therapy.

What they don't tell you, though, the doctors who came up with these stages that is, is that there is a sixth step. After you've come to accept what happened, there is this sort of numbness that takes over your body. You've been so hurt, so sad, that it's hard to feel anything anymore. It's kind of the calm after a storm. Sara has never told anyone about this limbo she seems to be trapped it, however. They'll take her kids away again and send her back to counseling. Thus nobody can know of the pain she hides within herself.

Absolutely no one.

Rolling over to see the clock again, she finds that she has just spent a whole hour thinking about grief. _Wow, Sara, that's great. You're coping well. Dr. Fields will be so proud of your progress. _Her thoughts are snide and sarcastic sounding even in her head, a bitter edge as she reflects upon her therapist. She never liked him very much.

From the corner of the room, the door cracks open an inch, Sara's breath halting in her throat and a hand instinctively itching towards the bed side table where a .357 Magnum revolver is kept. She has never had to use it, but she feels safer with it there as a precaution, especially since her and the kids live by themselves. Her fingers haven't even touched the drawer handle before two little faces peak through the doorway, a tremendous sigh escaping between her lips.

"Mama, can we sleep with you?" Katie asks quietly, her hair now out of the pigtails and falling messily down her back in ringlets. A dingy looking rabbit hangs from its ear in her hand, the bunny a sentiment from her days as an infant. It used to be white, but now after years of being her chew toy, pet, fellow tea partier, and whatever else it is that Katie has done with the stuffed animal, it's missing an eye and has been stitched up more times than Lincoln himself—who was coincidently the one who got it for her in the first place.

Michael is right behind his sister, his eyes big and innocent looking, nodding his head in agreement. Since birth, Katie has always been the more vocal one of the two, though Michael is intellectually in sync with her. He was the first to walk, but she was the first to talk. She enjoys playing games with others, while he would rather be off by himself building something with blocks on the floor. It is no question that they are more advanced than the average 3 year old, yet their brilliance only frightens her. Sara regularly finds herself worrying about whether or not they have inherited their father's psychological disorder; LLI.

Right now is no time for anxiety, though. "Of course, babies. Come here." Both stumble forward, leaving the door slightly ajar before crawling into bed with Sara. The two people she loves most in this world lay on either side of her, each arm wrapping its way around their narrow shoulders. They both smell of the soap she used to bathe them earlier after arriving home from the party, Katie's long curls even still damp. She'd been born with a head full of hair, the reddish-brown spirals growing quickly and not stopping until it was past her waist. Sara can't bear to cut anymore off then an a couple centimeters at a time, for it is so beautiful. "Couldn't you sleep?"

Even through the dark, she can just make out the familiar scrunch of Michael's nose—the same scrunch that once belonged on her husband's face. "Uncle Alex snores. We could hear him."

"And Uncle Fernando was talking to Aunt Mari on the phone for a _really_ long time!" Katie adds with a little grunt.

Sara's cheeks tighten slightly as a smile grows across her features. Since LJ and Hannah were in town, both the guest room and LJ's bedroom were being used at the Burrows household—Lincoln would let them sleep in the same bed "when hell freezes over"—that's what he'd said anyway. Satin should be getting his ice skates ready, though, because in just seven short months they'll be married. Linc still seems to have a slightly hostile outlook on the whole thing, and LJ hadn't hesitated to remind his father that he had married his mother when they were only 18. And the fact that Hannah isn't pregnant only makes his defense stronger, especially since Lisa _was _when she eloped with Lincoln back in 1988.

If there were two things those brothers were equally talented at, it would be breaking out of prison and knocking up their girlfriends.

Nevertheless, there were no free beds over there, so Mahone and Sucre are staying the night here. Alex took the guest room (they tossed a coin after he declared "Heads I win, tails you lose"), and a completely oblivious Sucre got the couch. Technically, he could have slept on Lincolns, but let's face it. Nobody wanted to be under _that_ roof tonight. "Well, I'm sorry, guys. They're leaving tomorrow afternoon so you should be able to take a nap…"

"No!" They both suddenly call out, fear of the prohibited n-word resurfacing. She hasn't forced them to nap since they turned three sixth months ago, and they clearly aren't happy with even the thought of it. "No nap, Mommy! We're big kids now!"

She quickly brings a finger to both of their lips. "Shhh…you don't want to wake them." The twins look at each other for a second, as if verifying what to do next, and apparently decide on the pout that has been known to make their mother cave once and a while. "Okay, okay. No nap. But only if we go to bed now."

They nod frantically, cuddling closer to their mother's warm body. She brings the comforter up so that it's covering all of them, and within ten minutes, both children are out cold. The steady sound of their breathing filling the dark room, Sara closes her eyes as well, trying to relax all her muscles. She usually sleeps better with them in the same bed as her, so she's pretty confident that she'll be able to go back to sleep for the next few hours. Hopefully even until 8, which would be equivalent to sleeping in.

Eventually, unconsciousness takes her, and just like every other time Mikey or Katie has slept with her, she ends up dreaming about their father.

oOo

_Wind lashes wisps of auburn hair from her face, a shower of water spraying up as the speeding boat soars deeper into the sea. The sun has just begun to raise, colors of purple, red, and orange emerging from the horizon, and an unfamiliar tranquility takes over Sara's body. Sitting here, on the boat that they were supposed to sail off together on more than one account, she almost feels like the whole process of grief could begin again. Denial would be easy right now, especially since everything looks so lifelike. _

"_Sara?" He calls from the front of the vessel, his steps becoming louder as he makes his way closer. "Is that you?"_

Who else would it be? _She asks herself, an illogical jealousy taking over for a moment. _The Czech stripper? Your _first_ wife? _He comes into view, and immediately any wariness she once had disappears. How could she be angry? She's seeing the man she loves. He wears a light blue button down, each sleeve rolled up to the elbow to reveal just the beginning of his toned arms. Loose khaki shorts are below that and sandals top off the bottom. He looks so casual and laidback, something she's hardly ever seen. _

_Mirroring the beam he holds, she lastly peers into his eye. Those eyes…so cavernous and unfathomable you'd think you're gazing into the ocean itself. He looks the exact same in a physical retrospect and that will have to do. "Michael." For some reason, whenever she says that word in reference to her husband it sounds different than in mention of their son. It's more of a purr than just a string of syllables. Not to say little Mikey doesn't hold purpose, but there is more meaning to it. _

"_You haven't been here in weeks," He states calmly, though she can detect some hurt as he moves faster towards her. "I was beginning to worry."_

_They are right in front of each other now, the need to touch unbearable. As they've learned before, though, touching is strictly forbidden. Whenever their skin tries to make contact, that's always the part where she wakes up. Always. "I'm sorry. I haven't been sleeping very well lately."_

_For the first time, he seems to see the bags under her eyes, the blood completely shot from both, and he frowns. "Today's November 4__th__ isn't it?"_

_She nods, ashamed of the amount of progress she has made. Michael is just so smart, always able to detect when something is wrong. "Yeah. Alex and Sucre came down to visit you're grave with us. Lincoln left a paper crane, and the kids and I brought calla lilies."_

_A smile instantly tugs at the corners of his lips. He knows all this, for it is the same procedure as every year. But he's too polite to say anything, plus Sara thinks he secretly likes hearing about them. "Thank you." He remembers how calla lilies were the flowers at their wedding. _

"_You'll never guess who's getting married!" She abruptly cries, recalling today's earlier events. _

_An adorable look of uncertainty covers his face, a line of hesitation setting between his eyebrows. That expression is _so _Katie. "Is it you?" Michael stares at her with wide eyes, apparently trying to take on the appearance of being encouraging but only looking sad. A pang of delight flies through her. _He looks genuinely upset.

_Holding up her left hand, she wiggles her naked ring finger. "Of course not," She then holds up the chain that hangs from around her neck, both of their wedding rings and her engagement ring strung loosely on it. "I was talking about LJ and Hannah."_

"_Oh," Relief undoubtedly washes through his body as he realizes that his wife isn't marrying another man. "Well, that's great. I bet Linc's thrilled."_

_Sara smiles. He knows his brother very well. "Before they even got around to telling all of us, he jumped up accusing Hannah of being pregnant. And then when they convinced him she wasn't, he said they were too young. LJ would have none of that, so he not so kindly reminded Lincoln that he and Lisa were two years younger when they got married, and it just went from there. They fought, and long story short, Mahone and Sucre are sleeping at my house right now."_

"_He just needs time. He was never one for change."_

_They have slowly made their way inside, both of them now sitting opposite each other on one of the couches. Even in this in-between fantasy world, the Christina Rose looks exactly as it does parked at a dock just down the street. The furnishings match precisely, and the ding on the side of the exterior is even present from the time LJ decided to play bumper-boats a few summers ago. _

_Neither talks for a few moments, Michael's mere presence enough to calm Sara down. She knows that none of this is real, but there is no harm in pretending. Speaking out loud, she asks a question that manages to come up every time she dreams about him. "Have you seen my parents?"_

_His entire body turned towards her, he brings his cupped hand to rest on his forehead as he closes his eyes for the briefest of times, sighing "Sara," in a pained tone. "You know I'm not allowed to talk about them unless they come to you themselves."_

"_Yeah, I know." She whispers, giving a disappointed bunch of nods. "I was just wondering. They're happy though, right? They found each other?"_

"_Yes, they're happy." There are another couple minutes before Michael speaks again. "How are the kids?"_

_For some reason, in her dreams, he never knows what has gone on in their lives. It's like he's in prison again, and these hallucinations are no more than visits where they converse through a sheet of glass. She likes to think that he can really see them, though, in real life. That he's somewhere away from any destruction with all the people either of them have ever lost, watching down on all of them. That thought is usually what gets her through the day, but since he has asked, she has to reply. "They're good. They started preschool in September at the church Sofia works at. She says that they are very smart for their age—geez, I can't believe that they'll be four in just six month. They're in class with five year olds."_

_His heads bobs as he listens. "It makes sense. We both have rather high IQ's."_

_She grins at his lack of modesty. It's not that he's being proud; he's just stating the obvious. The truth. Sara wishes that she could somehow stay longer, though knows that no amount of time will ever be enough. The familiar gray mist has started to seep into her dream, blurring her vision as her body is shook awake. She can just make out the faint sound of Mikey and Katie trying to wake her, and she recognizes that it's time to go. "I'm sorry, but I have to go. They're waking me up."_

_Michael understands and looks at her one last time. "I love you. Please come back again soon."_

"_I will," She vows just before resurfacing again in the physical world. "And I love you too."_

**PLEASE REVIEW!**

* * *

_**A/N**_

_**Okay, okay. I know this chapter was kind of boring and pointless, but think of it as a filler. I really wanted to show the internal pain Sara feels, even after four years, and how she dealt with the grief after his death. The next chapter will be back on Michael (which everyone seems to like better, anyone) so I just wanted to tell everyone to hold on. This story will pick up!**_

_**Oh, and I like to incorporate the readers in my story's, so I wanted to ask some questions. **_

_**1. How many chapters do you want to see from the story? (More or less than 15?)**_

_**2. Are there any characters you want me to bring in later?**_

_**3. What are good middle names for Katie and Michael?**_

_**Your answers would really help! Anyway, hoped you liked the chapter and thanks to everyone who has commented/favorited/followed! Support of any kind means a lot!**_

_**xoxox**_

_**-secretlife1201**_


	5. AN

**_A/N_**

**_Hey everybody! Sorry to disappoint, but this is not a new chapter (it's currently a work in progress). Anyway…I've been thinking…and I think I want a beta. I've never had one before, so I'm not exactly sure how it works, but I know I definitely need to talk to someone. I have some ideas bouncing around in my head right now about where I want the story to go, and I would really like it if I could collaborate with someone who knows the story (one of you guys!), and could help. _**

**_It won't be a big job, just someone I could tell what I'm thinking, see if they like it, and help me with some ideas. I wouldn't need you to write anything for me, but if I could get your opinion then I think it would really help! Because honestly…right now I'm sort of stuck. I don't know anyone who watched/watches PB in person, so I don't know if my thoughts are complete crap or not, and I just really need to talk to someone. _**

**_So, what I'm looking for:_**

**_-Someone who knows both PB and my story well enough to be of help._**

**_-Someone who can honestly voice their opinions, and I would feel comfortable trading ideas with._**

**_-Preferably, someone that is a fellow writer on fanfic, maybe you've even written a Prison Break story, and would be willing to help me out._**

**_If you're interested, then just PM me or leave a message on the story, and I'll be sure to get back to you. Tell me why you'd think you'd be a good beta/helper, and if you want you can give any ideas you already have! Like I said before, I'm not looking for someone to write the story for me, just share my ideas with. I think this will really help me, and I hope one of you out there has the time and energy to help!_**

**_Oh, and I will of course give you credit where credit is due in the story!_**

**_xoxox_**

**_-secretlife1201_**

**_p.s. I don't know how finding a beta is traditionally done, so I just did this! Sorry if this isn't considered normal…_**


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